Read All About It
by Neuronerd
Summary: A short study investigating the inner workings of Sherlock from the perspective of a mental health professional. There is much to be said about him and who knows- there may be more installments!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just a short one-shot about the inner workings of our favorite consulting detective!**

 **Read All About It**

I watched with curiosity the way the tall man moved about the room, seemingly like he was in the midst of a manic episode. He turned this way and that before quickly turning on his heel to go in yet another, his dark blue silk morning dressing robe swishing around his calves like a maelstrom. All the while he grimaced and muttered a string of seemingly random facts in rapid fire succession, engaging in a heated conversation with himself. The back and forth point- counterpoint reached a fevered pitch until he finally pulled up short with a satisfied sigh and placed his fingertips in a pyramid under his clean shaven chin as though he were silently thanking the gods for a solution to a problem neither I nor my colleague Dr. John Watson were privy to. A light smile crossed his full lips as his startling blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "Of course," he mused in a surprisingly deep baritone voice with such precise articulation one would assume he was a voice actor for a BBC nature program.

"I'm sorry," John meekly apologized batting his eyes rapidly as he was prone to do when he was irritated but too polite to say so, "what are you on about then? Sherlock, have you even noticed we have a guest? I told you about this a week ago. The least you could have done is bothered to get dressed." His exasperation was evident and I was a bit embarrassed to be placed in the middle of their argument. I had collaborated with John's clinic for a few years and in that time we had become friends. He told me he had a roommate that was, to use his words, "a brilliant but oblivious dick" but he felt I might enjoy meeting him in a professional sense because it seemed next to no one enjoyed him on a personal level.

The utter lack of recognition in his eyes beneath his mop of curly dark hair was something of a shock. I had only observed him for about 10 minutes and in that time I got the distinct impression not much slipped by him. The only explanation left was he did know, but just didn't care which went a long way in defining the type of man he was. "I am dressed, John." He said flatly.

"You are wearing trousers which is more than the queen got so there's that." He huffed indignantly. "But you might have gone a bit further and changed out of your night clothes. It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon."

The tension and dynamic between them was something to behold. In John's eyes Sherlock was a wayward man-child who needed minding in basic daily living skills while Sherlock was clearly left struggling in trying to figure out how any of it mattered in any real practical sense. Yet despite the miscommunication, it was clear there was no underlying resentment or ill will between them which was what made it all fascinating to watch.

That fascination, however, turned to cautious trepidation as his keen eyes drifted toward me. The way they darted over my features felt like nothing short of being dissected and it was clear he had some repressed agitation to let out. Interestingly, I didn't have to wait long. "Yes," he hummed lightly in an unmistakably condescending tone, "A professional colleague, though likely not a medical doctor judging by the slight indentations in the thumb and middle finger- marks of someone who does a lot of writing. You haven't said a word the whole time which tells me you also spend a great deal of time listening and observing. What other type of doctor writes a lot but says little than a psychologist or psychiatrist…"

"Sherlock." John warned in a low voice

"So, a person who keeps secrets, but you have some of your own." He stated emphatically, slowly moving toward me like a big cat toying with prey.

"Don't." John again interjected with a little more impetus.

He stopped a few inches from me and his intense eyes burned holes into my personal space. A normal person may have been intimidated by his behavior or height as he stood towering over them, but I had been exposed to far more extreme behavior in psychiatric wards to be afraid. I was, however, intrigued. True geniuses were rare, but each had their blind spots and I was waiting for him to show me his. "You aren't from the UK, I'd say American based on the branding and inexpensive make of your clothes but you haven't been here long- perhaps three or four days. You were married for a long time, probably to a man as your country had only allowed equal partnerships for a few years, but only recently removed your ring- why?" He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes sharply as he tried to work it out in his head.

"Sherlock! For god's sake that's enough!" John insisted. He knew why and he was trying desperately to keep his roommate from further embarrassment, but he was also trying to spare me.

"You could be having an affair with John, but you aren't his type. He prefers rather dull women." He went on matter-of-factly. "Teachers, barmaids and the like."

It was more than he could take and he spouted, "Oh piss off you cock!"

"He left you." He concluded undeterred by his friend's admonishment. "Went off and found another lover and in order to escape it, you came here for a conference or perhaps to take a lover of your own out of revenge. Your clothes are older, but well kept while your shoes are new suggesting you can afford better which rules out divorce but you can't let go of the past entirely." He again gave a small smile while he tilted his head in a self-satisfied manner to suggest confidence in his interpretations. "Now then, if I've fulfilled my meet and greet duties I really must get back to more interesting things."

"Sherlock," John whispered in a rage as he approached him, "you will stop this minute and apologize. She did not come here for you to insult her as you did. You've not only insulted her, but you've embarrassed yourself and infinitely worse, me."

It was that moment I realized what his weak spot was. For all of his encyclopedic knowledge about economics, politics, and statistical patterns the chink in his armor was the most common among geniuses- emotional intelligence. The bewildered expression on his face confirmed my suspicions as he internally grappled with what he may have missed or how all of the details he had amassed about me at a glance had somehow led him astray. "Is she not American?" He asked baffled. "Canadian then?"

"That's not the point!" John insisted. "You were wrong and you owe her an apology for acting like an utter imbecile."

He cast his eyes downward in begrudging acceptance and took a deep sigh before he turned to me and in a low, rumbling voice contritely stated, "Please forgive me for what I am being informed is my rudeness." I graciously smiled as I watched the inner turmoil roil across his features until he couldn't withhold it any longer and he hastily asked, "Where was the error?" He was desperate to know and I knew he was the type to obsess over flaws.

"You don't have to answer him," John assured me with a kind smile before slowly turning to his roommate "because it's none of his bloody business!"

Sherlock coolly held his gaze with an air of impeccable righteousness. He knew he probably shouldn't have pushed his luck, but he wasn't sorry and obviously felt he had a right to ask. "Suicide." I quietly responded while John hung his head. I wasn't sure if it was in sympathy for me or irritation that I indulged his friend's tendencies.

"Suicide." Sherlock quietly breathed with a small nod and a faraway look as though he were cataloging it somewhere deep in the archives of his mind for potential later use. "I didn't see that one."

"Neither did I." I freely admitted. John told me his friend liked to experiment and so did I. I elected to show a little vulnerability to see what he would do with it. His reaction would tell me if he truly was the "high functioning sociopath" he supposedly claimed to be or if he was something else entirely.

Sherlock's eyes rested on mine and for just a fleeting second I saw something which vaguely resembled sadness but in a flash it was gone. "So I was right then, in a manner of speaking." He shrugged before ambling across the room to pick up a violin. I wasn't sure if his action was a means of distancing himself from an emotionally charged situation he had no idea how to navigate or if the soothing, slow tune he made the instrument sing was a deliberate attempt at a second quiet apology.

"Are we happy then?" John asked as though he were trying desperately to get a bitter taste out of his mouth. "You win, so that's that?"

For his part, Sherlock didn't pause before quietly answering in a despondent tone over the wail of his violin, "A man chose to take his life, John. Nobody wins."

And with that I had my answer.


	2. Professional Consultation

**Professional Consultation**

"I'm so sorry. I should have known." John sighed into his tea as we sat in the little café below his apartment. "I mean, I knew he'd somehow manage to make a complete tosser of himself- he always does, but _that_ …" he stammered to compose himself and swallow the obvious discomfort he felt, "that was simply inexcusable and I'm sorry."

I took a sip of what passed for coffee in this part of the world and smiled. John had always been a kind man despite the things he had witnessed both as a doctor and in the military. "Don't be." I assured him. "You did give me fair warning beforehand and let's face it- we both have met people in our respective lines of work that actively try to get our goat. The key is in not letting them. They only have as much power and ability to upset you as you let them have and the truth is, I allowed him to get as far as he did." I nodded appreciatively and couldn't help but let an amused chuckle slip past my lips. "He was fascinating to watch, though. You were right about that."

"So in your professional opinion, is he completely barmy?" He inquired pleasantly. The dark mood that seemed so pervasive only moments earlier had thankfully dissipated, if only to trash talk about his roommate- in a completely professional context of course.

"He's certainly eccentric, I'll say that." I laughed. "But not certifiable if you're worried about sleeping with your bedroom door locked. At least from what I was able to gather, that is." He looked up hesitantly and I felt compelled to add, "I only observed him for a short time and all I have to go on is what little about his life you've mentioned in passing at work. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior."

"I'm not concerned with him becoming violent and even if it were so, I'm well capable of defending myself. I did serve in the military where I had to take lives as well as save them you know." He stated quietly. The tone of his voice was laden with such resigned regret that it made me sad for him. I simply couldn't imagine how he managed to balance such discrepant goals and maintain his sanity. "Surprisingly, he can fight though. Not sure where he would've learned it but I have known him to send others to hospital when necessary."

"I don't see him as being motivated by violence alone either." I agreed glancing out the window at the pedestrians walking hurriedly by in the drizzling rain. "It wouldn't make sense to him other than as a means of defense. He lives in his head and would much rather use brains rather than brawn to beat someone, so using his fists wouldn't feel natural. But, if he was provoked to that point I'm sure he'd use his knowledge to great effect. It would probably be like poking a hibernating bear. Once you wake it up you can be assured you'll be mauled to death for your trouble."

"A bear." He mused wistfully as he took another sip of his steaming tea. "Funny, I rather thought of him as more a cockroach. No one likes them, but they somehow bang on no matter." After another moment of reflection, he asked "Is that why you didn't flinch when he walked up on you? Typically, he's not able to sidle up to living people like that because they've run screaming in frustration well before then." He flashed a playful smile and added, "I'm sure the dead would like to as well, but they're much less fortunate."

I shook my head while I smiled at the mental imagery. John had told me before Sherlock has made virtual enemies with several members of the local police as well as the government, yet they continued to ask for his help for lack of a better option. After all, he sometimes worked for free because he considered the mental "distraction" payment enough. "I didn't see it as him trying to threaten me- at least not deliberately. Sometimes people with low levels of social awareness don't have the best ability to recognize personal space. He was a little close for comfort, but he was by no means attempting to be menacing. If he wanted to be territorial or send a message he certainly had multiple opportunities to act aggressively, but there was nothing in his facial expressions or tone that sent up read flags. He was overly curious, that's all."

"That he is." John agreed squinting at his phone which had pinged, alerting him to a message. However, he plopped it back down on the table with an annoyed grimace until it again alerted him and he hissed "Bugger off" at it.

I watched with curiosity before finally stating the obvious with a twisted smile. "I think you have to type that in. That's how texting works."

"Oh, he can read my mind from up there." He assured me, jabbing his finger toward the ceiling.

"I see." I nodded slowly. "So this is far from the first time the two of you have had a disagreement."

"You just met him. What do you think?" He asked in an exasperated tone. "Even Mother Teresa would want to punch him in the face within a fortnight."

"And yet you stay." I mused intrigued. "He must have something to offer. Can he cook?"

"Cook?" He scoffed incredulously. "He barely eats because it interferes with his thinking and it hasn't occurred to him his body is perfectly capable of carrying out both functions simultaneously. If it weren't for Ms. Hudson and I, he'd be a smiling skeleton up there holding that damned violin. He can't be bothered to go out for milk or even put on a kettle to boil water."

"I thought he played it pretty well." I shrugged noncommittally. "I'm guessing he's fairly well off financially given his snide remark about my clothes and your address. His speech was incredibly precise which tells me he's probably well educated. Trust fund kid?" I guessed.

John seemed taken aback for a moment while he mulled it over. "I really don't know." He admitted in a mysterious tone. "I suspect he's connected in some way and he does make good money solving cases when I mind the payments."

"So it isn't money, or at least any that you have access to." I summed up slyly.

"Well, he does give me his bank card from time to time when I go to the shops, but…" All of a sudden he looked up sharply at me and shook his head. "Right then. I see where this is going and for the final time for anyone who will listen, Sherlock and I are not in any sort of relationship."

"I'm not judging." I shrugged. "But I wouldn't go so far as to say you aren't in any type of relationship with him."

His eyes batted a few times more than necessary and I feared I might have insulted him. "And what does that mean, exactly?" He inquired. His voice was slightly terse, but there was just enough calmness to suggest he was willing to give me another chance, which all in all I had to say was quintessential Dr. John Watson as I knew him. He was like a fountain of infinite chances- probably to his detriment, but he was never one to walk away easily from anything come hell or high water.

"Friends, John. It is, by definition, a type of relationship two people can find themselves in."

He swallowed hard and gave a relieved yet desperate laugh. "Yes, I suppose it is. But he has no friends. Just ask him." It was clear to me he felt his effort was more often than not unrequited and in a small way I resented Sherlock for not finding it within himself to show more appreciation for a man who was somehow miraculously able to put up with his bullshit.

"Well, that's not what I saw and just because one says they have no friends doesn't mean they don't want them." I thanked the waitress for bringing a second cup of fresh coffee as mine had become cold and bitter. "We are all inherently social creatures, John. He has no friends because he doesn't know how to connect with others in that way. It's like social convention is a foreign language to him and let's face it, he probably hasn't been met with much success historically. He was probably bullied by classmates as a child and repeatedly rejected by peers as he grew older- people like him almost always are but somehow you've managed to break through that language barrier enough to get his attention."

"And how do you know this?" He asked skeptically raising his eyebrows.

"You asked him to apologize and he did." I said simply. "He had absolutely no idea why you wanted him to and I could tell by his facial expression and tone he really didn't mean it, but he did it nonetheless because in that moment doing what you asked was more important than his own need to understand it." I paused for a moment to let it sink in. "He didn't do it for my sake, he did it for you. If you say he's not your lover, then that makes him your friend."

"My god." John breathed heavily, sitting back in his chair. "So he does feel. There are times I swear he's a bloody machine."

I shot him a confused look and replied, "Of course he does! He might have had to learn the hard way to reflexively suppress those types of things, rationalize them, or at the very least not to show it. He prefers facts and figures because they are safe territory to him- known quantities of predictable properties. Numbers and tidbits of trivia won't make you feel bad, won't reject you, and more importantly, won't mysteriously change the way people do. He might genuinely be socially impaired to some degree, although very high functioning, but only true psychopaths feel nothing and he is not indeed a 'high functioning sociopath' as he claims."

I watched a slow smile spread across my companion's face as a new way of viewing his roommate seeped in, but it was short lived as a new text alert made the smile fade away into a grimace. He downed the remains of his tea and held his head high as he proclaimed, "Sherlock would like for us to return. Seems he's not done yet, so what do you say? Feel up for another round of wondering if going straight on to Hell for murdering him would make the punishment completely worth it if it meant finally shutting him up?"

"Game on." I smiled, grabbing my coat as John graciously fished a five pound note from his pocket and let it fall amongst the half-full cups of caffeine and empty sugar packets.


	3. Secret Service

**Secret Service**

"Sherlock?" John called as we made our way up the narrow and sometimes creaky staircase as if that alone weren't enough advance warning of our approach. "Surprisingly, she agreed to return. Think you can manage not to be a total git this time?" His voice trailed off somewhat as he rounded the corner to the living area where his friend attempted to decipher my presence only an hour or so before.

Sherlock sheepishly cast his sharp blueish green eyes downward as his long fingers deftly buttoned the left cuff of his purple dress shirt. He looked nothing short of dapper dressed smartly in a black suit which had obviously been tailored to his tall frame and his curly hair, although still somewhat rebellious, had been smoothed over in an attempt to look more presentable. Immediately to his left on a mirrored tray sat a white china teapot with steam emanating from the spout as though it had just been made accompanied by two cups, a matching bowl of sugar, and an assortment of tiny cakes and cookies. Small, brightly polished spoons rested elegantly on carefully folded napkins, ready for duty. Although he initially played the reprimanded school boy, the small smile that graced his face at our apparent shock betrayed him. He was enjoying the moment thoroughly. "I don't believe we've properly met." He purred in my general direction in a low, yet formal tone. "I do hope you'll afford me the opportunity of a do-over."

John cocked his head in several directions looking utterly confused. "Did…did Ms. Hudson put you up to this?" He asked pointing to the tray. "Because I don't understand. At all."

Sherlock briefly pursed his lips and looked mildly irritated as he turned to his friend. "Hardly surprising, but I don't see what difference that makes. It's tea, isn't it? The tea in this case came from India as all darjeeling tea does and once it makes it to England it doesn't matter if Ms. Hudson, you, I, or the queen brings it up the stairs, it will always taste the same."

"Thank you for the hospitality, Mr. Holmes." I quickly interrupted before things got too heated. "And it's nice to finally meet you." No matter whose idea it was, he was playing along and his effort should count for something.

"So you _are_ American." He surmised with a confirmatory nod. "The accent gives you away. Midwestern- nothing too obvious or distinct as accents go but American just the same." He seemed a little bored by being right all the time and sighed heavily. "Just like every other American you see on the telly."

"Sorry to disappoint you." I conceded. "I've been lucky enough to make a few trips a year to John's clinic doing some joint research, so once in a while I'm able to enjoy your country as well and all of your various accents."

"Sounds dull." He quickly mumbled. "I'm sure melancholy is the same here as there and everywhere no matter how it sounds dribbling from their mouths. People the world over obsessing about others and falling apart when unrealistic expectations fail to be met as they invariably do..."

"There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help." John quietly but firmly stated. "It's no different than visiting the GP when you have a cold or a broken bone." Sherlock shot him a 'come now' look prompting John to add, "I know, something else you aren't fond of, but your recalcitrant avoidance of the medical establishment notwithstanding, there's nothing wrong with seeking treatment."

He tried his best to keep what could reasonably pass as a pleasant expression on his face while he took a scarf from the back of a chair and tied it around his neck. Nonetheless, his effort was completely and utterly undone by the thick sarcasm in his voice. "The medical establishment and I get on well when I am provided the things I need for my experiments and you have been serviceable as my private physician..."

"Oh well, thank you for that." John nodded vigorously, clearly signaling his annoyance.

"…but getting into the muck of other's madness sounds like a good deal of fun and so I'll leave you to it." With a graceful motion he slid his arms into a long, heavy trench coat and turned up the collar to keep warm in the dampness of the outdoors. As he jogged down the stairs he called over his shoulder, "John, could you pick up milk when you're out?"

John shook his head in stunned disbelief. "I was just out!" He yelled after him. "And you are going out now!"

"That would be an utter waste of my time. Imagine standing in que while Queen and country awaits and all that." He excused himself in a playful tone as the door to the street below slammed shut, effectively ending the conversation.

John placed his hands on his hips and heaved a heavy sigh of frustration. "Do you see now what I live with?" He asked rhetorically. "He is a terrible human being and an even worse patient."

"I'll bet." I laughed heartily. "He doesn't seem the type to follow doctor's orders."

"He doesn't bloody follow anyone's orders and that's nearly got him done in a few times. For as smart as he is, he can be amazingly dimwitted." He huffed. After a moment in which he was able to calm himself, he shook his head in disbelief. "Would you believe he didn't know the earth travels 'round the sun?" The look of surprise on my face only spurred him on. "That's the honest truth- he had no clue. Said it wasn't important. The man is a graduate chemist and he couldn't be bothered to learn that little tidbit along the way, say in primary school?" He giggled. "Apparently his mind palace was in need of a rubbish sale."

My eyes lit up at the mention of a mind palace. "Ah!" I exclaimed. "That explains how he's able to recall such an array of information. It's a great way to significantly enhance memory capacity."

"Too bad he can't remember to place his wallet by the palace door." He sighed, helping himself to yet another cup of tea just so it wouldn't go to waste. "Seems he always conveniently forgets it when we take a cab."

"Then he's probably smarter than you think!" I chuckled. "He's getting you to pay for his fare and pick up milk. He could do these things for himself if he wanted to, but why should he when he has you?"

"Like living with an overgrown house cat." He agreed good naturedly. "Everything on their terms and on their schedule." He frowned into his cup and looked perplexed. "By god, he did make it himself. He let it steep way too long and its gone bitter like hemlock." Then his confusion turned to panic as he hastily plopped the saucer and cup down on the kitchen table as though it were a live snake and proclaimed "Then again he may have added some extra ingredients. He's done that little trick before." He seemed to vacillate on his next course of action before seizing his phone and quickly tapping out a frantic message. "Please tell me this is another example of your inability to do a simple thing rather than an attempt to poison us or see if we'll grow a third arm." He pleaded as he typed. His phone quickly pinged and I couldn't tell if his expression was dread or anger, but I was secretly happy I preferred coffee over tea and hadn't taken Sherlock up on his offer as John did. At the very least, one of us would be sober and coherent enough to take the other to a hospital. He batted his eyes and cleared his throat before reading in an annoyed tone, "One should drink milk to neutralize poisons, but we haven't any now do we? SH."

I couldn't help by laugh and soon John was joining me. "Well, you can't say he doesn't have a sense of humor." I granted. "Even if his default setting is scathingly sarcastic and tilts toward morbid." As I looked around the room and noted skulls in human, animal, and painted varieties, I noted "It seems that extends to his décor as well." I had to admit, I didn't know how the spray painted yellow smiling face full of bullet holes fit in.

"All his." John was all too happy to assign blame as he wiped up the tea he spilled. "Not to my taste, but I have to say it's not the most bizarre thing I've associated with him."

He had my full attention. "Such as?" I prompted.

"The time I found a head in the refrigerator or the eyeballs in the microwave." He sighed in a singsong tone as though he could go on all day. "Or that one time he burst in the door holding a harpoon covered from head to toe in blood. How he managed to get on the tube to here without getting arrested I've not the faintest."

"He…" I stammered trying to get my bearings on what John apparently felt was completely normal behavior, "he had a head in the fridge?" I was starting to rethink the psychopath theory. After all, Ted Bundy was notoriously charming when he wanted to be and Jeffery Dahmer managed to stash parts of 11 bodies in his apartment before anyone noticed.

"Yeah. No idea who that poor bloke was." He shrugged before quickly catching on to my rising anxiety. "Well, he didn't kill him if that's what you're thinking. He has shall we say an arrangement with a person who does postmortems at the local hospital. That's where the bits and parts come from. He uses them for his experiments."

Being a rogue mad scientist didn't seem any better a prospect to me than a serial killer, but I was completely mesmerized by John's lack of concern. "What does he study?" I asked a bit incredulously. Suddenly the microscope on the kitchen table seemed more ominous than it did before when I thought he was a chemist.

"Oh, I dunno- all sorts. How long it takes saliva to stop after death I think is what the head was for. I can't remember exactly, it was a bit shocking at the moment. But then again, I don't really understand where he's going with half the things he says anyway." He apologized. I couldn't help but let my eyes wander to the stainless steel refrigerator and wonder what it currently contained. "I know what you're thinking about it being a bit off and I don't disagree, but Scotland Yard's been up here several times and knows of it and they haven't nicked him for it yet."

"So, oh god…" I sighed letting my head fall into my hand trying desperately to find some sort of sensibility in the mad world I had fallen into where keeping ill-gotten body parts for unsupervised experiments was somehow willingly overlooked by the police, "Ok, does he at least give the parts a proper burial or share any of his data with others who could benefit- like forensics?" There had to be a silver lining somewhere in all of this. I just couldn't believe John could be party to such behavior if there wasn't some catch to it all.

John could clearly tell I was struggling and to his credit, he was still able to show some empathy despite living with a flesh hoarder. He quietly directed me to an overstuffed yet sleek and modern grey leather chair while he sat opposite in an old red one. He clasped his hands in front of him and took a long, deep sigh before beginning in a soft tone, "I will tell you that Sherlock, for all his oddity in just about every conceivable way, is flat out the most brilliant man I've ever known. Whenever he gets that look in his eye when he's on to something no one else could possibly see or even know, I have to wonder just how much more goes on in that head of his that he couldn't possibly convey to others. He admittedly does go off script a bit, but he's also saved lives- loads of them by doing what he does and it's because of that I can see my way to give him the benefit of the doubt."

It made total sense to me when he explained it in simple terms of cost-benefit analysis. Keeping dead bodies wasn't some sick fetish to him- it was a means to an end of gaining more knowledge he could then use in a very meaningful way. "So is he some clandestine agent then?" I asked mysteriously. "You said he works for the government." It was the only thing I could think of as to why he would then get a pass from law enforcement who otherwise despised him.

"Of sorts, sometimes." He stammered as he tried to precisely categorize his roommate's occupation. "Consulting detective is his actual self-appointed title, but he works for anyone from the queen to the commoner so long as the case interests him."

"Self-appointed?" I laughed as the realization hit me. "You mean he created his own job. He really is smarter than I gave him credit for." I nodded appreciatively.

The door downstairs slammed shut sounding like a gunshot and Sherlock's deep voice called with some urgency. "John!"

John immediately leapt up from his chair with an alarmed look on his face which told me this was unusual for him. "What is it, Sherlock?" He asked trying to keep the anxiety from his voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Hardly." He huffed as he entered the room but stopped short at the sight of me. "Where am I to sit then?" He asked confused. "That's my thinking place."

"We have a sofa and several other chairs, Sherlock. You've used them many times." He impatiently reminded him. "Now what the hell's going on?"

"No," he calmly and firmly corrected, "the kitchen chairs are for eating at the table, the chairs at the desk are for using your laptop which by the way, is most certainly been infected by malicious software. John, you really must be more careful when downloading pornography. Those sites are notorious for such behavior."

"Yes, alright, good." He quickly hissed embarrassed. "Just skip to the part where you tell me why you just ran up the stairs like your trousers were on fire."

Sherlock's expression was grim as he pulled his phone from his coat pocket and showed John a message he'd received. "Soon the whole of the city could erupt in flame, so I thought some practice might be appropriate." He replied darkly. If John looked mortified before, he appeared absolutely aghast at whatever secrets the softly glowing screen held for him.


	4. Brotherly Love

**Brotherly Love**

It was several weeks before I heard from John again and shortly after that tense moment in their living room I had returned to my home, but all the while I kept nervously checking several sources of news from London for any hint of what they were up to. On the one hand, if Sherlock had been called to action to foil some grand plot and save an entire city one would think that might get a passing mention in the press- even if not naming him directly then at least providing some details of the event. But on the other, if he really was some type of secret state agent his work may not become public knowledge so as not to blow his cover or incite panic over what could have been. Governments carried on those types of things on a daily basis without their citizens knowing what was going on behind the curtain.

Interestingly, he was apparently something of a reluctant minor celebrity as I was easily able to find articles both of the informative and tawdry type about him with a quick internet search. But of all the information to be had, I found none so intriguing than the blog of Dr. John Watson. I read through all of the archived articles voraciously as he outlined their many adventures- the lady in pink, the Chinese smuggling ring, the taxi driver who made others effectively commit suicide in some sick game of power and it was only then I began to realize who John Watson was and what he'd gotten himself wrapped up in. There were the occasional missed meetings and odd occurrences of him turning up with inexplicable cuts or bruises, but no one had any idea how he may have gotten them. Now it all made sense- albeit in a perfectly improbable way.

Even more telling were the comments left on his blog apparently by Sherlock himself. He wasn't so much bothered by the fact John was chronicling his missions as might be expected if he were truly an undercover agent, but more to the point he was aggrieved with _how_ he chose to convey information. Sherlock was miffed that the accounts were more focused on what happened and neglected to highlight the process behind it. It was interesting to me because it screamed for a need to be recognized for his brilliance- not that he wanted to be recognized for anything at all- but if it had to be, that's what he wanted to be known for. It was almost as though the outcome of a case was inconsequential compared to how clever he was in trying. Sherlock was a man of deep insecurities and I almost laughed at myself for missing the obvious. At some point he was made to feel less than, probably by someone close to him who had the power to do so and during a critical period of his development such as childhood, and he devoted every moment of his life thereafter to proving them wrong. He didn't just have to be better than his tormentor; he had to be better than everyone so no one could ever again question his worth. Classic overcompensation.

Those words echoed in my head as I sat awkwardly at the kitchen table at 221B Baker Street, not really sure what to do. I had returned to England for a brief stay and John had asked me over to look at some data we had collected. He realized shortly after my arrival he left some papers he needed for the project at the office which was a short distance away and asked if I would be alright there alone while he sprinted to get them. He assured me Sherlock was out and so of course I agreed. However, this couldn't have been further from the truth as it turned out and I wondered if it was some prank schemed up by them both. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Sherlock shuffle around the house in bare feet wrapped in a bed sheet and I suspected nothing else. It wasn't the flashes of pale skin from his upper thigh or chest that made me look away- it was the precarious way the sheet held on to his shoulders and the manner it was loosely and lazily wrapped around his waist that gave me pause.

It took him a moment to even realize I was there and once he did, it surprisingly never once seemed to bother him. He squinted slightly and in a flat tone stated, "People often complain of the NHS, but they've done a remarkable job with your gender reassignment surgery, John. All in all, an improvement, although people certainly will talk now."

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." I mumbled to the table. "I'm sorry to surprise you, but John said you were out."

"Clearly not." His tone shifted and became slightly more playful as he reached up to stifle a yawn, causing the sheet to slip a little more. "Though I am amused by typical American Puritanical prudishness. Do I offend you?"

I reflexively looked away and responded, "Nudity in and of itself doesn't bother me, Mr. Holmes, but context matters. This is your house and you can do as you like, but if that sheet slips any further I'm not really prepared to know more about you than I want or need to given the circumstance."

"I suppose I'll have to go put trousers on again." He grumbled miserably as if the very thought of getting dressed was a useless chore. "Your presence is starting to become ill-timed and off-putting." His head snapped up sharply as though he heard a familiar sound I didn't detect. He quickly shuffled to the window, tightly gripping the sheet so it wouldn't be lost along the way and frowned deeply as he deadpanned, "And speaking of off-putting."

There was no mistaking the seismic shift in his demeanor as he patiently awaited his fate. He looked like a man who was about to be executed with his hardened eyes, tight jaw, and slightly bent head that clearly signaled his dread at the sound of footsteps approaching up the stairs. I couldn't see from the kitchen, but Sherlock glanced up at his visitor and the cheerful yet hollow greeting of "Good morning, brother mine."

"Mycroft." He returned, his deep voice equally cordial and acidic.

"I was beginning to worry about you." The man continued, undisturbed by his host's obvious irritation. "I've texted you several times this morning and heard nothing. I was starting to entertain the thought that you might have come into some harm." The dripping insincerity in his voice gave me the chills and it made me wonder if the mystery man really was Sherlock's family or if it was meant to be a facetious dig.

"In which case you could go about your day relieved as if nothing happened." He coldly retorted. "I was much too busy this morning with my own pursuits to jump to your call as though I were a dog at your command."

"I see." He hummed lightly as his footsteps approached Sherlock slowly. "Were there more lost kittens to be found?"

"Rabbit." Sherlock spat in an agitated tone. "It was a glowing rabbit."

"And the dog with the red glowing eyes. Yes, all manner of monstrous glowing things. Perhaps you should open your own petting zoo." Just past the doorframe I could see a sliver of a man who appeared to be about the same height as Sherlock dressed in a tan suit leaning on a black umbrella. He glanced over his shoulder at me and a cold smile crept across his face as he turned back to his brother and took a long look up and down his semi-nude form before giving a small chuckle. "Oh, I don't think so." He chided in a condescending tone.

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath while he bravely tried to hold on to whatever shred of dignity he had in the face of such an insult. "You don't know that." He shot back petulantly.

"I do." Mycroft insisted, although somewhat softer than before as if he regretted hurting his feelings in some small way. "Don't forget, little brother, who it was that taught you the skills of deduction. Would you like to engage in a little game of guess how I know?" He asked smugly.

"No." Sherlock quietly answered with just a hint of residual defiance.

Although Mycroft clearly heard him, he leaned in closer and continued despite his protest. "Let's begin with the fact that you obviously just woke. Your hair is slightly oily and you've not shaved, suggesting you haven't showered as we both know you prefer to shave in the shower." He edged in just a bit closer and breathed in deeply, causing Sherlock to recoil slightly. "And yet you don't smell like you've gotten on with anyone." The repulsed look on Sherlock's face was enough to make his brother smile with twisted delight. "But then again, you wouldn't know what that smells like, now would you?" He taunted.

He bowed his head ever so slightly almost as though he were pleading for mercy and an end to the harassment. A part of me felt badly for him as though I were watching a child being bullied on the playground, but it gave me some very interesting insight into what were obviously dysfunctional family dynamics. More than just friendly familial teasing, Sherlock's reaction indicated there may have been some truth to his brother's jabs which I found somewhat surprising. I didn't know how old Sherlock was, but I found it improbable that he'd never even experimented with anyone as most do in their pre-teen years. It was possible he was asexual, but biology and hormones are very powerful things indeed. Yet his apparent comfort with his own body and casual ribbing of both John for his choice of websites and my supposed prudishness suggested he wasn't necessarily uncomfortable with such things which made him a bit of a conundrum.

"It's inconsequential anyway." Mycroft consoled in a surprisingly genuine tone, "I think we both agree that such things only serve to distract us from more worthy pursuits." He was unclear as to whether or not he meant nit-picking one another or engaging in relationships in general, yet he obviously felt no need to elucidate as he went on. "My urgency in contacting you remains, but I think utmost discretion is needed." He spared another glance over his shoulder to make a point of telling me I was the problem to be avoided. "I will send a car for you in one hour." He gave him another furtive once over and added, "And please do dress accordingly. You can't continue to be seen as if you're trying singlehandedly to make togas fashionable again."

Sherlock said nothing more, but watched his guest leave with such smoldering contempt it was breathtaking. "Is that really your brother?" I asked quietly.

He continued to watch the street below just to be sure his tormentor had indeed left and muttered, "If only because we were born to the same two unremarkable people. Otherwise, no."


End file.
